


Lotus

by RokiRiot



Series: Gaa_Lee Bingo, Card 1 [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Inspired by Tokyo Crazy Paradise, M/M, Mentioned Kankuro, Mentioned Temari, Mentions of sex trafficking, Other, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, crime syndicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RokiRiot/pseuds/RokiRiot
Summary: Dancing under the blinding lights of the club, people can makedirtymoney, abadreputation, or even afakename. Gaara and Lee, living two completely different lives, meet each other under unusual circumstances. The string of fate binds itself unbiasedly.~~~~~~~~~~~Fic name inspired by song titledLotusbyUhmeer:I need youI need to see your lotus flowerComing up every morningLet us discoverNone of the power inside of your lowdownLotus Flower
Relationships: Gaara/Rock Lee
Series: Gaa_Lee Bingo, Card 1 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955089
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27
Collections: GaaLee Bingo





	Lotus

**Author's Note:**

> A short clip from a story I may or may not ever post here. Based on/inspired by Tokyo Crazy Paradise. 
> 
> Prompt: Fanboy

The air in the club is smokey. It lines neon lit booths like a dressing cape, doing little to obscure the vision of passing onlookers. The point, of course, is to look. The hosts, waitresses, bartenders, and dancers alike all wear their flashiest garb, daring the patrons to peek and spend their coin. 

Gaara could buy the whole establishment with his allowance and still have money. He won't, but its a sentiment he keeps in mind as he watches the proceedings before him. His father wants a piece of this seedy place, his dull brown eyes shining across the dancers on stage, in booths, in their glass cages. Just a piece, not ownership. 

Gaara doesn't have to guess to see what kind of trafficking is going on here. Almost half the workers look younger than him, faces and bodies soft where they should be done filling out. And though Gaara has a baby face, he too, is still young. A few of the patrons give him speculative, interested glances until he changes his seating and opens his coat. His hand rests lovingly on one of the pistols on his thigh. 

Gaara watches his father get cozy with a woman that is more implants and augmentations than organ and flesh. His usual stoic tone is belied by the way he leans into her space, the way his eyes fixate on what those he thinks of as a source of income. His father has never been a petty pimp, so Gaara shudders to think what his interest in this place might really be.

Not that he's really making inquiries. 

"Gaara," his father turns to him, his eyes a kind of shining poison that tell Gaara it's his time to split, "Go make yourself acquainted with the establishment. Take Baki with you."

Gaara doesn't reply at all, not even to grunt. He stands, swiftly making his way out of his father's company. He goes as far as he can into the establishment, pretending to meander and watch dancers or listen in on raunchy host/hostess conversations. He completely ignores Baki, intent on pretending he's there on his own and not willing to be dragged back.

The farther in he goes, the more dancing counters he finds, males and females in all forms, androgynous or double sexed, dancing as though crazed. 

Gaara is sure they are; money can do that to anyone. 

The room is more ovular than square, with the head or back of the room cut in two by a long stage and a stripper pole right down the middle. The walls scallop inwards on either side, semi private dancing booths on the left covered by glittering glass gem curtains. On the right, doors that each say VIP in floating neon cursive. Gaara has no doubt what goes on back there 

There are tables diffused about the room, some semicircular booths, some with strippers atop them, and some just to eat upon. Gaara slides into a booth with no one in it, made for eating. He can see Baki from the corner of his eye, hesitating on whether to sit down or come closer at all. 

A waitress in a latex leotard so tight he can see her belly button and areola stops beside the booth. Her hair is twisted up to form two cat ears on her head, little wisps of hair floating about her cheeks, and a collar with a bell jingling around her neck. Her yellow, feline eyes blink almost preditorially at him. 

"Are you ready to order?" She asks, licking her lips. Her tongue is just long enough to be too long. 

"I need a menu," he grunts. She tilts her head at him when he speaks, watching his mouth form the words and his throat growl them out. She taps on the table, and it lights up with a full list of drinks. 

"Double tap to see a preview, keep going for appetizers and entrees," she says, "I'll be back when you're ready... Hope you have an appetite, dolly."

Gaara debates shooting her as a matter of principle. 

The menu selection isn't bad. The restaurant sticks to mainly meat dishes; steaks, burger, chicken karaage. There are some fancier dishes that have specialty sauces and whatnot, but Gaara's not picky. 

He's just starving. He decides on a steak in as many ounces as he weighs with an array of veggies as sides, takoyaki appetizer, a sake on the dry side, and a strawberry soda. If he wants more, he'll order it later. The waitress doesn't even bother taking his ID. He puts his glock down on the table as a warning to her and everyone else that he doesn't want to be bothered before, during, or after his meal. 

Gaara watches the people. They are all watching one another, hunger apparent in their eyes. They all want something from one another, and this is what suits them best. Gaara wonders, for a brief second, what it is like to need something so badly it drives someone to wilderness. 

A tall and wide shadow casts itself in front of his booth. 

Gaara follows the long line of body from where the table cuts it off. The person before him is tall and slim, dressed in a teddy that is being absolutely _swallowed_ by their thighs and a silky robe that Gaara can see clear through with green feathers on the hems. His eyes trail up and up and _up_ until they land on a darker green pair staring straight back at him. 

This woman has the biggest pair of eyes Gaara has ever seen. They're not fishy, like he's seen on one of his father's constituites (although Gaara thinks the man paid to have them that way; his skin is _blue_ for fuck's sake.) They're just large, framed by equally long and luscious eyelashes. Her hair is brushed into a sleek ponytail high on her head, waving itself out in thick rivulets as it spills down her back. She holds his first order on a tray, her pouty mouth turned downward in a frown. 

"Hello, Dear Customer," she says, and her voice is high, but not high like a woman's, "I have your order with me, but I am going to have to ask you to put away your weapon."

Gaara blinks up at her, her shiny hair and her shiny teeth and her rather large eyebrows. 

"Why?"

Excuse me?" The woman tilts her head, and her neck is corded in a way that makes Gaara think of braided titanium muscle replacements. 

"It's my gun," Gaara says clearly, "I haven't shot anyone. So I shouldn't have to put it away."

"Dear Customer, you're making our other patrons and workers nervous," the woman says firmly. Gaara drags his eyes from her neck to her wrist. Her arm not showing any sign of weakness from holding his probably heavy tray too long. He looks around. People are looking in their direction, but it's obvious they don't give even a wit's care about his gun. They stare pointedly at the woman's back. 

"My food is getting cold," Gaara replies. 

"You will not be able to eat unless you put away your weapon," the woman says plainly, her voice not in the slightest bit threatening, but brooking no argument. Out of the corner of his eye, Gaara sees Baki edge closer to the table, his hand in his coat. Gaara flicks his fingers for him to back off. 

"I could just shoot you and take my food."

"You could shoot me," the woman agrees, bobbing her head astutely, "But then I would drop your food and you would have to wait even longer for them to remake it."

The way the woman blatantly disregards her own mortality makes Gaara narrow his eyes. He gives her body another scrutinizing glance. From thick thighs and wide hips, up and up, flat stomach and a mostly flat chest. Gaara can see where her skin stretches as she breathes. There is nothing automated about her that Gaara can see. 

He glances back up at her face, and if she's embarrassed that he was just eying her like a piece of meat, she doesn't say anything about it. 

"I don't want to be bothered," Gaara says, finally relenting. 

"Oh!" the woman cries, and Gaara realizes he can hear her clearly over the din of heavily synthesized beats, "If that is all, then how about we make a deal? You put away your weapon, and I bring you to one of our VIP rooms. No one will bother you in there unless you request a service!"

Gaara stares at her blinking, twinkly eyes. He grunts his assent and gets up, slipping his gun back into the holster he keeps on his thigh.

"Will this gentleman be coming with you?" She asks after a moment, turning to Baki as though he were sitting in the chair beside Gaara and not hanging back and doing his best to look entertained. They share a look with one another, and Gaara flicks his head.

"Yeah," he grunts.

"Wonderful," the woman beams. Her teeth shine duochrome in the neon light. She turns on her high, man killing heels and leads them on. She's incredibly tall, exacerbated by the heels. She wears high socks with lace fringe that strain to contain her thighs. Her leg muscles bounce as she walks. Gaara thinks, with her slightly foreign looks, she could be a model. She doesn't need to be in here. 

Her stride is wide and measured, never faltering but never making Gaara feel like he has to scramble to keep up. She slides open one of the middle doors to a room. The shape is carried through: a semi circular booth, ceiling covered in reflective fractals, and a table with a hole in the center where Gaara guesses there could be a pole if he wanted. 

Gaara eyes the woman's tightly curled bicep where it holds his food to the side of the room. She tilts her head at him and smiles again. It's as though she's not in a room with two armed men. 

As soon as the door slides shut, the heavy bass mutes itself, leaving only softly playing jazz. Gaara slides into the bench. Baki not so surreptitiously careens his head around, looking for a trap Gaara suspects he won't find. The woman begins placing plates on the table in front of him. 

"Would you like to order as well, Dear Customer?" She asks, batting her eyes slowly at Baki. Or perhaps she's just blinking. Everything about her screams drama. Gaara slides the plate of takoyaki in his direction.

"No... Thank you," Baki says politely, tapping the edge of the plate in surprise, but not looking away from her. Gaara is sure that the woman has had her cheek muscles sutured to her temples, because she smiles continuously, her lips never trembling.

"Alright. Dear Customer, if you need anything else, please triple tap this here," the woman's hand floats over the table, bringing up a bright red button that she pantomimes tapping, "and someone will be over to assist you shortly."

"Aren't you my waitress?" Gaara asks, cutting up his steak. It still smokes when he cuts it, so he's in a fair mood. "Why would someone else come?"

The woman's smile falters, her eyebrows scrunching in a way that finally puts some unease on her face. 

_"I_ am a dancer, not a server."

Gaara's brain clanks over the word I, used in the masculine form. He looks the dancer up and down again, staring at their face. He notices now that though they have outgoing features, they're still young looking. Probably Gaara's age or younger. It makes sense that they would still use _'ore'_ for themselves, if they're still in their teens. 

"You're too young to be a dancer."

The dancer frowns, "I am already a man."

Gaara blinks at him, a weird sensation curling in his belly. He chews his steak thoughtfully, wondering if there's something in it that's making him sick. After further thought, he realizes it's not sickness as he has experienced it before. It's as though someone has reached their fingers down his throat to tickle his intestines. 

"Do you perhaps... dislike this kind of thing?" the dancer asks when too much time has passed. He puts the large serving tray in front of his body as if to hide it. He lowers his eyes, fan eyelashes pulling a string at Gaara's core to make him uncomfortable. Gaara stares at him. 

"I like it," he says gently, stomach churning. The dancer lifts his eyes only slightly, searching Gaara for any hint of a lie. Even if he were, the dancer would be unable to tell. His smile dawns like the new day sun, bright over Gaara's uneasy temperament. 

"I am glad," the dancer replies, "I am going to be performing soon. If you like... You can watch from in here." He leans over the table, close to where Gaara's food is steady cooling. His clavicle glistens with spirit glitter and other makeup. Gaara stares at it as it stretches, light brown skin enticing Gaara. He’s never thought of putting his mouth on someone’s skin before, not like this. He wonders what it would taste like. Salt, sweat, the chalky taste of perfume? Or perhaps like the aftertaste of birthday cake, the cloying sweetness melted away to leave tingling appetite on his tongue?

The dancer taps on the table, and it lights up with a menu for 'services.' "Just press this when the announcer asks if you'd like to watch."

"Hn," Gaara grunts, watching those long fingers gesture and slide. The dancer backs away and smiles again. 

"Please enjoy your meal, Dear Customer," he says. Before Gaara can ask how he might call him back if he wants him, he slips from the room. His silk robe billows behind him before he snaps the door shut. The room bears down around him, a moment of peace. Gaara stares at the closed door for a long while, tucking into his meal vigorously. 

"He was quite... pretty," Baki says carefully. He watches Gaara very carefully. Gaara goes over the image of the dancer as he remembered it. Strong core, strong legs, strong arms. Eyes that could cause any living thing to spontaneously combust. Straight teeth that could bite the words from Gaara's tongue before he spoke them. 

"Hm," Gaara grunts in the affirmative. He knows this is a strange admission. He's had sex before, done so at the behest of his father for the sake of the group. He knows it's not something he _should_ be doing, based on Temari's teary phone calls and the way Kankuro hovers when they're out on 'business' together. Gaara has never been attracted to any of those people before, however. 

He's never fixated on someone's body in quite this manner. Gaara has never been fooled quite like that, either, letting someone divert the conversation the way that person did. Gaara knows he's going to watch the dance even before the little hologram fashioned in the dancer's likeness pops out of the table.

"Hi, I'm Renge! Will you be watching my dance tonight?" The little miniature asks, not nearly as dazzling as the real thing. Gaara watches the little figures hips sway, dressed in a skintight green catsuit, hair in a long plait down it's back. On this version, Gaara can see the little telltale bulge. He wants to keep it.

"You'll miss it if you wait too long," Baki says after some time. Gaara reluctantly presses the 'accept' button. The hologram grows, stepping down off the table to lower the lights. Renge's image does a two step and hop, dragging it's shining hand across the wall. The panels seem to turn under his long fingers, and a clear view of the rest of the club shines before them. 

On the stage, the real Renge stands, head high, eyes turned down. There must be someone announcing him, because he doesn't move in the slightest. 

A pole extends itself out of the center of the table. Gaara assumes this, too, is a hologram if the way Renge grabs it is anything to go by. He shimmers, and like one of those magic transformations Gaara has seen in cartoons, his clothes and hair change. 

An exact replica of the Renge on stage appears on the table. A heavy bass rhythm begins to play beneath a sultry instrumental. Renge takes gentle steps around the pole to the beat, swaying his hips as though trying to find where he lives within it. The hologram is a hyper realistic extension of Renge, making the same moves as he is at the same time he makes them. 

Gaara is unsure whether he should look at the stage or the hologram, keen eyes not keen enough to catch facial expressions from afar the way the hologram displays. Renge grips the pole, forearms flexing, and lifts his legs straight out, making a 'v' shape cut in half. His arms flex more, he tilts his hips, and his stuff legs go out to make a pyramid, rising out from the side of the steel. 

Gaara forgets about his food. Renge tumbles around the pole like he is going to vault, then sticks one leg out, catching the other in his wrist. His body twists around the pole like he could bend it to his will, and he spins in a split that would have any lesser man wincing in pain. 

And he does all of this to music. Renge never misses a chance to wind and twist his hips, seducing the pole like it is the person of his choice. He whips his hair as an extension of his body. His expressions are sultry and exciting. Every movement is deliberate, every part of his body controlled. He's a dancer and a gymnast. 

He twirls into a handstand, then slides his legs, one at a time, down to the floor, until he lays there coyly. Renge lifts his hips, eyes seeming to lock with Gaara's between his spread thighs, and waggles his behind.

Gaara swallows.

On the giant screen behind the Renge on stage, grand sums of money flash by; one hundred thousand yen, two thousand, thirty thousand. It's like an auction house, except Renge seems too dignified to be swept away by the highest bidder. Gaara knows he shouldn't do it the exact moment he blindly inputs five and six zero's

"Bocchama-," Baki chokes. 

The money flashes on stage, five million yen, just as Renge drops from the pole into his final split. Sparks of red gold go up, most likely another hologram. The screen behind their personal hologram goes back to its original silver-grey. The hologram before them turns to them and smiles. It gets on it's knees to bow and says, "Thank you so much, Dear Customer."

"Gaara. My name is Gaara."

It's smile remains, a perfectly frozen replica of the original, and then it flickers away. 

Gaara watches where the afterimage leaves twinkling sparks before his eyes. It takes him a long while to return to his meal; now cold vegetable sides all that remain. 

"That wasn't prudent," Baki says. 

"I want him," Gaara hums back. 

"Bocchama..."

"I know." They both know. But Baki won't disallow him to voice himself when they're alone, the only time he is allowed to have desires. Gaara folds his cutlery across his plate. One glance at Baki's solemns countenance tells him how the night will go from there on. He twists his mouth into a moue of discomfort. 

Gaara wants to see Renge, he thinks madly. He heads to the exit of the VIP room, door on the handle before Baki can fully unseat himself. He walks briskly into the main room, no evidence of the roaring performance that just occurred left behind. Gaara heads into the main room, head turning this way and that to catch a glimpse of shining thighs and green feathers. 

"Bocch- Gaara-sama! You can't-" Baki struggles to remain composed as Gaara searches. 

"Gaara."

The young master stops in his tracks. Without another word or wayward glance, Gaara turns. His father's words are a mimic of his face; cold awareness of what just occurred. It would be a long night for them both. At least Gaara had gotten a full stomach out of it.

He follows his father and their small band of guards out of the establishment. If he steals a projection disk from the hostess desk before he goes, no one catches him. 

**_l o t u s_ **

Lee's change of clothes consists of lacey thigh high socks in neon orange, a garter belt, and a speedo that he has to half tuck his family jewels into to keep them from slipping out. It makes him feel a bit naughty to snap the garter and sock together, but he reminds himself that this is just a costume, and the perversion slips from his mind. 

He's done his performance for the night, and it's about the time where they will have their last influx of customers before the night calms down. Usually, at this time, he would be letting someone pick him for service for the rest of the night, or meeting with one of the regulars. 

He won't be doing that, tonight. 

"Mami-sama," he calls, sliding out of the dressing room and leaning over her desk. Mami is a buxom woman, hair darker than black and eyes a red so bright Lee struggles to tell if they're real. She peers at him above her glasses. 

"Renge-chan. You know payments don't go out until the end of the night."

Lee has never asked her for payment before his shift ends. From the way she smirks, Lee can tell she is trying to pull one over on him. 

"The guest who paid five million yen for my dance... Could you please tell me who that is?"

Mami sighs, unhappy that her joke didn't strike well. She pulls up a hologram and flips through a few options before her. Lee recognizes the numbers as they flash upon the screen. 

"You should know him... The brat you put in VIP room number four."

"Ah," Lee claps his hands together. The boy had looked even younger than him, though the depth of his voice had made Lee shiver in surprise. He hadn't been sure what to think of him, besides finding him attractive. At least now he knew that the attraction went both ways. 

Unless the man beside him was his father, and had been the real one to pay. Either way, Lee wasn't one to be ungrateful. 

"Thank you very much, Mami-sama!" He spins in his terribly high heels, hellbent on finding the patron. 

"Don't let one customer lead to you shirking your duties," she calls behind him. 

"Yes ma'am!" He says, although he plans to spend the entire night getting comfortable with the patron. He goes back through the dressing room, bright vanity lights fogged from smoke. Quite a few eyes follow him, filled with venom or desire. A feeling he has learned to be aware of but not heed. 

He careens back out of the dressing room and walks briskly towards the VIP rooms. His eyes are dead set on that room, not listening to the calls of his name or the passing caresses that try to capture his attention. Lee settles his heart, knowing he shouldn't feel so excited. That person hadn't done anything particularly kind... Except...

_'I like it.'_

Lee flushes, doing his best to curb the smile to himself. He puts his hand on the door and takes another deep breath.


End file.
